


The Cabin

by Kalimyre



Series: D/s AU [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bondage, Breathplay, Collars, Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-04
Updated: 2012-07-10
Packaged: 2017-11-09 03:30:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/450758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalimyre/pseuds/Kalimyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of the Dom/sub AU.  Mycroft and Greg finally get that trip away to the cabin.  Third in the series following Hiding in Plain Sight and A Series of Firsts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mycroft glances at his phone again and a line appears between his eyebrows.  He opens the email app and scrolls through his last five messages.  As he’s reading, the phone chimes and a sixth comes in.  He rolls his eyes and sighs.  Sliding the phone open to reveal the keyboard, he taps out a quick reply.  
  
“Stop it,” Greg says.  His eyes are still on the road.  
  
“No orders in public,” Mycroft replies.  His phone chimes again and he covers the speaker with his thumb in a doomed attempt to make it quieter.  
  
“We’re not in public, we’re in my car,” Greg says.  “In the country.  In the middle of nowhere.  And believe it or not, England will not crumble if you are gone for a few days.”  
  
Mycroft frowns.  “They seem to think so.”  
  
“Give it.”  Greg holds out his hand.  
  
Mycroft looks down at the phone.  His fingers tighten around it.  “But…”  
  
“As long as you keep answering them, they’re going to keep coming,” Greg says.  “They’re only asking you stuff because they’re lazy and you know everything.  If you stop answering they’ll have to actually find the answers for themselves.”  
  
“There could be an emergency,” Mycroft points out.  
  
“Mycroft.”  Greg’s lips press together in a hard line, and then he takes a deep breath and his voice loses some of the sharp edge.  “We talked about this.  Right?  Didn’t we talk about this?”  
  
“Yes,” Mycroft says.  “Yes, I know.  This is why I don’t go on holiday very often.”  
  
“Or _ever_ ,” Greg replies.  “Seriously, how long have you been doing whatever it is you do?  Few years, right?”  
  
“About twelve years,” Mycroft says.  “More or less.  Took me some time to get to my current position.”  
  
Greg nods.  “And before that, did the country exist?  Did it somehow carry on without your constant supervision?”  
  
Mycroft narrows his eyes.  “It’s not necessary to mock me.  I never suggested I was essential to the continued existence of our government.  I only said it might be important, and it was not a good idea for me to be out of communication.”  
  
“I’m not…”  Greg snaps his mouth shut and hits the brakes.  He takes them to the side of the road, pulling onto the soft shoulder.  Then he turns and gives Mycroft a long, level stare.  Mycroft lifts his chin and stares back.  Greg takes one of his hands and wraps it in both of his, stroking his thumb over Mycroft’s palm.  His eyes soften, and a wry smile tugs at his mouth.  “Okay, I’m sorry,” Greg says.  
  
Mycroft drops his gaze and lets the stiffness go out of his shoulders.  “Thank you.  I know we agreed that we’d both take some time off but my job is… difficult to escape.  I’m trying.”  
  
“You sure?”  Greg holds a hand up when Mycroft opens his mouth to reply.  “No, wait.  Think about it.  Are you really, honestly trying to get away?  Is every message you’ve replied to crucial and something only you can handle?”  
  
“Well,” Mycroft hedges.  “No, I suppose not.”  He offers an apologetic smile.  “Habit.”  
  
Greg nods.  “Habit, I know.  You do love your routines.”  It’s fond and teasing the way he says it, and Mycroft feels something ease in his chest.  He squeezes Greg’s hand.  
  
“I do actually want the break,” Mycroft says.  “Despite all appearances, I’m glad we’re getting away together.  Your brother’s cabin sounds very appealing.”  
  
“You’ll love it,” Greg says.  “But it’s a long drive, we got up too early, and I’ve had _way_ too much coffee.  So how about a truce, huh?  Leave the phone alone until we get there.  I promise you can check your messages when we arrive, and if there is something that is truly important, you can respond.”  
  
Mycroft nods and closes his eyes for a moment. He’s aware of Greg pulling the phone from his hand and he lets it go. He keeps his eyes closed; it’s easier that way. Greg’s fingers wrap around his wrists, holding him firmly, and he feels a wave of quiet wash over him. Last minute preparations for their trip kept him busy late into the evening at work for the past several days and, aside from sleeping, they’ve had very little time together.  
  
“Here’s what we’ll do,” Greg says.  His voice has gone calm, cool, and just a bit sharp; the familiar tone of command.  Mycroft smiles.  “When I say, I want you to get in the backseat.  You’ll find my bag on the floor behind me.  Open it and pull out the wrist cuffs, you know the ones I mean.  Put them on and lie down in the back seat on your side.  Go.”  
  
He’s moving before he can think about it, the hard edge of Greg’s voice like a hook pulling him forward.  He finds the cuffs right where Greg said and slips into them, pressing the clasp shut against the door handle.  He curls on his side with his arms folded over his chest, wrists snugly bound, and lets out a long breath.  
  
“Good,” Greg says.  “You needed that, didn’t you.”  
  
It’s not a question but Mycroft nods.  The backseat is fairly small but he likes it; the feeling of being pressed into the small space is comforting.  He tucks his chin down against his chest and draws his knees up.  The cuffs are a solid, reassuring weight.  Greg reaches back and smoothes a hand over his shoulder and Mycroft leans into the touch.  
  
“Quiet now,” Greg says.  “Close your eyes.  Let yourself ease down.  The car is locked, the windows are tinted; there’s nobody out here and even if somebody came along they couldn’t see anything.  Just relax.  I’ll tell you when we get there.”  
  
The material of the seat below him seems to become a thick liquid, giving way as he sinks into it.  He lets the feeling envelop him and slides beneath the surface.  He’s barely aware of movement as the car pulls back out onto the road.  
  
*  
  
A hand on his shoulder wakes him and he blinks sleepily.  Greg smiles at him and brushes a kiss to his temple.  “Up now,” he says.  “Come on, back with me.  Sit up and let me get at those cuffs.”  
  
Mycroft sits up.  He lifts his arms obediently and allows Greg to remove the cuffs.  He looks around, gradually bringing his focus back to the real world.  They’re surrounded by green, trees lush with summer growth crowded in around the car on all sides.  Sunlight filters through the leaves to land in dappled patterns on the ground, and it’s very quiet.  He can hear a scattered few birds, a soft murmur of branches moving in the breeze, and the tick of the car engine as it cools.  
  
Greg gives him time.  He sits beside Mycroft and loops an arm around his waist, and Mycroft leans against him, cheek resting on his shoulder.  He closes his eyes and breathes in.  He can smell damp earth and leaves and nothing else.  
  
“Feeling better?” Greg asks.  
  
“Yes,” Mycroft says.  “Thank you.  I’m sorry about before.”  
  
Greg flicks his fingers dismissively.  “We were both out of sorts.  Doesn’t matter.”  He leans back and grins out the open window.  “Gorgeous, isn’t it?”  
  
“Mmm.”  Mycroft takes another deep breath.  “It’s very quiet.”  
  
“Yeah.”  Greg gives him a sidelong glance.  “Guess you’ll be wanting your phone back now.”  
  
“Actually, no,” Mycroft says.  “That’s all right.  Keep it.”  
  
“You sure?  I did promise you could check.”  
  
“I’m sure.”  Mycroft stretches and settles more comfortably against Greg’s side.  “I told Delia that she should consider me unreachable.  It will be interesting to see how they perform in my absence.”  
  
“Delia… your assistant, right?” Greg asks.  “She was Lily when I met her.”  
  
“She does that,” Mycroft says.  “I’ve often wondered how she chooses her names.  It will be something else by the time I get back.”  
  
Greg makes an amused sound, and then straightens, patting his knee briskly.  “Right,” he says.  “We’ve got unpacking to do.  Come on and help me.  I’ve got a surprise for you when we’re done.”  
  
Mycroft raises a curious eyebrow and does as he is told.  The inside of the cabin is dusty but reasonably neat; most of the furniture is covered with sheets but there is a stack of dry firewood and the water runs just fine when Greg tests the kitchen sink.  They haul in clothes and bedding and food.  Greg directs and Mycroft does most of the actual moving.  
  
He wouldn’t normally care for manual labor but when it’s Greg’s calm, even voice telling him exactly what to do it feels soothing.  Every order is a simple task, requiring no thought, and every time he obeys it gives him a quiet sense of accomplishment.  He lets his body do the work and allows his mind to skip over the surface, coasting aimlessly.  He's smiling absently and humming to himself by the time they've put everything away.  When he finishes, Greg pulls him close.  
  
“Good job,” Greg murmurs to him.  “My dear Mycroft.  I have something I think you’ll like.”  He reaches inside his jacket and pulls a narrow cloth pouch out of his pocket.  Mycroft focuses on it, mind whirring busily, and he’s deduced the contents before Greg can say a word.  His eyes widen and his breath catches in his throat.  He stares at Greg.  
  
Greg laughs softly.  “Should’ve known you’d figure it out.  It’s just while we’re here, okay?  Just for this trip.  I know it’s not something we can get away with at home.”  
  
Mycroft gives a slight nod.  His eyes are fixed on Greg’s hands as he turns the pouch over in them.  He licks his lips, vaguely aware that he’s breathing hard.  His fingers feel numb and there is a distant rushing in his ears.  
  
“Shh,” Greg says.  “I’ll only put this on you if you want me to.  Steady now, you’ve gone all pale.”  
  
“I want you to,” Mycroft says quickly.  “I do, I’ve wanted… can I see it?  Please?”  
  
“Kneel first.”  
  
Mycroft drops down hard, barely feeling his knees hitting the wooden floor.  He looks up at Greg in wordless pleading.  
  
“Easy, hush,” Greg soothes him.  He puts a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder and squeezes.  Mycroft goes still.  He only realizes he's been trembling when it stops.  Greg’s hand strokes down his cheek and he turns to press a kiss to the inside of his wrist.  Greg smiles.  “Good,” he says.  “That’s right, calm.”  
  
He opens the pouch.  The collar he pulls out is the same rich dark brown colour as his eyes.  It is soft leather, slim and flexible, with a silver clasp.  Mycroft swallows and sways, leaning closer to Greg.  
  
“Do you accept this collar and everything it means?” Greg asks: the traditional words.  
  
“Yes,” Mycroft says.  “Please.  _Yes_.”  
  
Greg’s face changes; the steady calm flickers and for a moment there is something fierce and possessive there.  Something that makes Mycroft bow his head and bare the nape of his neck.  He closes his eyes as he feels Greg’s hands encircle his throat.  The leather is warm; it’s been in Greg’s pocket, close to his body, and has retained his heat.  The inner surface is fine suede, soft against his skin.  A shiver goes through him when the buckle snaps shut.  
  
Greg squeezes his shoulders and draws him forward until Mycroft’s cheek rests against his belly.  He strokes Mycroft’s hair, and then lower, trailing down the back of his neck, fingers playing over the edges of the collar.  “Beautiful,” he murmurs.  “Thank you.”  
  
Mycroft wraps his arms around Greg’s thighs and presses his face harder against the other man’s shirt.  He says nothing.  There are so many things crowded in his chest, pressing into his mouth, and clamoring for release that he can’t know for sure what will come out.  
  
“Come on,” Greg says.  He tugs at Mycroft, turning him, and drops into a chair.  Mycroft stays with him.  He sinks back on his heels and rests his chin on Greg’s knee.  He keeps his eyes shut tight.  He can feel the collar with every breath, every small movement.  His fingers curl into the material of Greg’s shirt and clutch at it, and he scoots as close as he can.    
  
Greg strokes his hair and shoulders.  “Are you okay?”  
  
Mycroft nods automatically.  He takes a deep breath, somewhat startled when it comes back out in a ragged series of hitches.  “Yes.  Mostly.  I’ve never…”  
  
“I know,” Greg says quietly.  “It’s all right; it’s just for this week.”  
  
That does not make him feel better _at all._ Mycroft clenches his jaw and his chest hitches again.  He presses his lips together to remain silent.  
  
“Mycroft?”  Greg pushes at his shoulders to get him to straighten, and cups his jaw in one hand, lifting Mycroft’s face.  “Talk to me.”  
  
He’s blurry when Mycroft opens his eyes, and he blinks several times.  “I love it,” he says.  “Don’t think otherwise, I really do.  It’s, I can’t… I’m just a little overwhelmed.”  
  
“Okay,” Greg says.  He lets Mycroft lean against him again and squeezes the back of his neck.  The warmth of his palm over top of the soft leather is an entirely new feeling and Mycroft quivers.  
  
He told Greg part of the truth; he is a bit overwhelmed.  It’s such a simple thing but it carries so much meaning.  A collared sub belongs to one person and only one person as long as the collar is worn.  It is a constant physical reminder that Greg wants him; that he is desired and that Greg will not share.  It identifies him as a sub at a glance and is something he has never dared to wear.  
  
All he can think is how hard it will be to take it off.


	2. Chapter 2

After dinner, Greg builds a fire.  It is a meticulous process and Mycroft finds it hypnotic to watch.  He creates careful layers of kindling and newspaper and catches them alight.  When the kindling is blazing merrily, he stacks on some thicker chunks of split wood.  The smoke is carried up the chimney but the room fills with the faint scent of dry wood and the crackling rustle of the fire.  
  
When Greg settles back onto the sofa, facing the fire, Mycroft folds up at his feet.  They watch the flames in silence for a while.  Mycroft feels himself drifting.  The quiet is strange; he usually has to filter out all the noise of the city when he sinks down but now there is only the sound of the fire and the faint rush of the wind.  
  
Greg strokes his hair idly, and then traces his fingers over the collar.  “I can’t get over how you look in this,” he says.  A low, hungry note deepens his voice.  “I put it on you.”  Mycroft can hear the tinge of _mine, mine_ that colours the words.  Something hot coils low in his belly and he rubs his cheek against Greg’s thigh.  
  
“I’m going to tie you down tonight,” Greg says.  “I’m going to have you.”  The words are calm and sure.  Utterly confident.  
  
Mycroft shivers.  He catches Greg’s hand and brings it to his mouth, then sucks on two of his fingers.  Greg tastes of wood smoke and skin and Mycroft laps at him, licking eagerly over the pads of his fingers.  Greg makes a soft sound and shifts, his hips rocking forward.  “Mmm,” he says.  “I know what you want.”  
  
Eyes closed, Mycroft takes him deeper.  He’s always liked things in his mouth (which led to a rather chubby childhood that Sherlock never lets him forget) and the pressure against his tongue, the warmth, the slight salty taste are all deeply satisfying.  He can feel the bump of Greg’s knuckles and the hard curve of his fingernails; he flicks with the tip of his tongue as if he can taste the individual whorls and ridges of his fingerprints.  
  
Greg draws in a fast breath through his nose.  He pulls his fingers away from Mycroft's mouth and slips them beneath his collar, drawing it tight against his throat.  It is suddenly a bit hard to breathe and a sizzle of feeling shoots through him.  Greg’s fingers are wet and slick, hot against his neck.  Greg tugs him to his feet by the collar and leads him through the cabin.  
  
He pushes Mycroft down on the bed and holds him there: hand on the back of his neck, pressing the buckle of the collar into his skin.  Mycroft goes completely limp and offers no resistance.  He lets Greg strip him out of his clothes and position him as he wants.  He is still in control enough to be careful; he is not rough, but Mycroft can feel the edge of impatience.  When he leans over Mycroft and kisses his neck, he follows the touch with a feral scrape of teeth.  
  
When he’s naked, Greg pulls him off the bed and guides him onto the floor on his knees.  He cuffs Mycroft’s hands behind him; the strap is short enough for him to feel the pull in his shoulders.  Resting his forehead against the edge of the mattress, Mycroft closes his eyes and drifts.  He can hear Greg moving but doesn’t try to deduce what he’s doing.  Through it all the collar is a constant presence, reminding him he is part of something.  He is wanted; he is safe.  
  
There is another push at his shoulders and he senses warmth to either side of his face.  He turns his head and rubs his cheek against Greg’s bare thigh.  He keeps his eyes closed and moves by feel, kissing his way up the thigh.  The skin grows warmer under his lips, and he lingers in a place where it is thin and hot and he can feel Greg’s pulse.  
  
A firm hand tugs at his hair, then at his collar.  It is pulled taut against his throat, so tight he can’t breathe.  Mycroft waits, unafraid.  Greg will let him go when he decides it’s enough.  He lets his weight hang forward, pressing the leather even harder against his neck.  He can hear his pounding heartbeat and the uneven rasp of Greg’s breathing.  
  
The pressure eases suddenly and he gasps, dizziness abating and leaving behind a rush of tingling heat.  He can smell Greg’s arousal when he draws in rapid breaths and it is impossible to wait any longer.  He slides his mouth over Greg’s cock in one long push, as deep as he can.  Mycroft moans around him, sucking eagerly, greedily.  He rubs with the flat of his tongue in broad strokes and swallows around the head, relishing the thick pressure in his throat.  
  
“Oh god,” Greg mutters, hips rocking on the bed.  “You want it, I love the way you always want it so much.”  
  
Mycroft hums agreement and sucks harder.  His throat aches with how deep he’s taking Greg but it’s not enough.  Something in him wants to be filled and held and taken, to have so much of Greg that it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins.  Mycroft wants to _keep_ him.  He never wants it to stop.  
  
“The way you look,” Greg pants above him.  His hands run through Mycroft’s hair, over his shoulders, and back up to his throat.  He rubs his thumbs over the collar and Mycroft can feel him twitch and thicken in his mouth.  “Gorgeous, so fucking… oh, oh that’s good.  _Unh_ , Mycroft, yes, like that…”    
  
Mycroft curls his tongue and plays the tip of it up and down the shaft, then around the crown, teasing at the foreskin.  He bobs up enough to probe at the slit and suck hard at the tip, then slides his lips down in a tight ring.  Greg shudders and groans.  His hand is on the back of Mycroft’s neck again, skin and leather pressing against him. Mycroft is glad his hands are tied behind his back because he hasn’t been given leave to touch himself and he wouldn’t be able to resist.  
  
“ _Ah!_   God, oh, wait, wait,” Greg says, using his grip on the collar to pull him away.  Mycroft makes a soft pleading sound and stretches his neck out.  His mouth feels cold and too empty and Greg was _close_ , he knows it and he wants to finish.  He wants to feel Greg come apart, wants to hear him, wants that delicious satisfaction of knowing he made it happen.  
  
“Hush,” Greg says firmly.  “Don’t fight me.”  
  
He stops resisting and lowers his head, obedient.  Greg strokes his hair and makes an approving murmur.  “Good,” he says.  “Don’t worry, you’ll get what you want.  Trust me.”  
  
Mycroft says nothing.  He’s deep under, dazed and floating, and it’s so much easier not to speak.  He doesn’t have to think of anything clever to say, or worry about saying something wrong.  He lets out a long breath and rests his forehead against Greg’s thigh; his back curves as his shoulders go slack.  The brief pang of frustration fades and he is calm, only distantly conscious of the warm throb of arousal between his legs.  
  
Hands tug him to his feet, and then arrange him on the bed.  He is quiet and pliant.  When he is rolled onto his belly, he finds a pillow beneath his hips and he presses against it, making a soft murmur at the sweet rush of sensation.  Gentle fingers turn his head to one side so he can breathe properly, and he feels the brush of a kiss on the nape of his neck.    
  
Another kiss lands warm on his wrists, just over the cuffs.  “Lovely,” Greg breathes.  He trails his fingertips from Mycroft’s shoulder all the way down his arm to his crossed wrists, and then back up to the other shoulder.  “We’re going to do something new now,” he says.  “Tell me that you’re with me.”  
  
Mycroft shifts and frowns slightly.  Speaking takes so much _effort_.  “M’with you,” he finally says when it becomes clear that Greg is waiting.    
  
“Tell me the rules.”  
  
“If I want it to stop, I say so,” Mycroft recites dutifully.  “If it hurts, I tell you.  You won’t be angry and I am allowed to stop at any time.”  
  
“Good,” Greg says, and gives a sharp tug at the collar.  “My good boy.”  
  
Mycroft shivers.  Greg strokes his back and waits.  He murmurs softly, pressing Mycroft down against the mattress.  His weight is firm over the backs of Mycroft’s thighs.  He can’t move his legs, his arms are still securely cuffed, and he feels pinned and held and safe in the quiet room.  They are tucked away here, separate from the rest of the world.    
  
When he’s well under again, there is a click and snap from somewhere behind him, and then the wet sound of slippery skin.  Fingers trail down his back, leaving streaks of moisture that cool on his skin and raise goosebumps up his spine.  Greg lifts up long enough to spread his thighs wide, and then settles down between them.  Some part of Mycroft understands what is coming but he is too far under to worry about it.  He moves where he is pushed.  
  
A slick finger trails along the cleft of his arse and presses just slightly in.  It wriggles there, spreading more lube all around the opening, and sparks of sensation shoot through him.  He can feel it sizzling up his chest, bringing his nipples to firm little peaks.  His balls pull close and taut against his body, and he squirms, pressing his cock against the pillow.  
  
“Shh,” Greg says.  “Oh, you’re tight.  Breathe out for me, let yourself sink into it, just relax.”  He’s still pressing inward, inexorable, and Mycroft obeys.  He breathes out, pushing the tension away.  The faint burn eases and Greg makes a pleased sound.  His finger curls, rubbing and stroking Mycroft from the inside.  Mycroft drifts.  The feeling is pleasant but once past the initial breach there is only some pressure and a sensation of movement.  He can let it fade, content that nothing is being asked of him but to lie here and let Greg touch him as he pleases.  
  
There is another moment of burn when Greg adds a second finger, but Mycroft sinks beneath it without being told.  More pressure now, more fullness.  It isn’t the first time they’ve done this, although it’s rare.  In the past, he's also used his own fingers on himself when he wants that sensation of completion, but as with all things, being with Greg is very different than being alone.  He’s not in charge and doesn’t know what is coming next; every touch is unexpected.  Especially when Greg crooks his fingers just so and the tips run across the spot that sends a hot arc of pleasure through him.  
  
Mycroft gasps and his legs jerk, hips hitching upward.  Greg gives a low, smug chuckle.  “There we are,” he says.  “Feel good?”  
  
Mycroft nods as best he can.  He squirms on the bed as Greg strokes him firmly.  His hips rock and his cock rubs against the pillow.  Greg presses in little circles with perfect aim and Mycroft moans.  Heat rises up in his skin, racing from his scalp all the way down his back.  He pants for breath and mouths the blanket beneath his cheek.  He bites at it, grateful for the cloth in his mouth, needing something there.  
  
“Listen to me,” Greg purrs, leaning over him.  His fingers never stop the relentless slippery glide inside him.  “You’re not to come like this.  Understand?”  
  
“Mmm,” Mycroft manages.  
  
“I mean it,” Greg says.  His fingers withdraw for a moment, and there are three when they come back, slick with more lube.  Mycroft twists and his toes curl; he draws in a deep breath and it comes out in a ragged rush when Greg finds his prostate again.    
  
“Please,” Mycroft whines, not sure what he’s asking for.  
  
“You can be good,” Greg says, low and encouraging.  “You can be so good, I know you can.”  The pressure of his fingertips is maddening and sweet and endless.    
  
Mycroft nods frantically and draws his knees up until his cock is hanging in the air, untouched.  The loss of friction there is both a relief and a torment.  He rocks back against Greg’s hand, trying to get more.  He’s balanced precariously on his knees and chest, wobbling with his hands still bound behind his back.    
  
Greg’s free hand slips underneath him and grips his cock without warning, giving him a long, firm stroke.  Mycroft cries out and then bites his lip hard.  He clenches his fists, fingernails digging into his palms, and all the muscles in his abdomen go whipcord tense.  He can feel the coil of pleasure deep in his belly and his cock aches and he _wants_ but he can be good, he can.  He can.  
  
“You’re so close,” Greg says.  His voice is like a live wire, electric and thrumming, raking over him.  “Oh look at you, I can feel you shaking.  You’re so hard.  You want to come, don’t you?”  
  
Mycroft makes a choked, pleading sound.  He clenches around Greg’s fingers, not sure if he wants them to go or wants a fourth added.  He’s caught, teetering, he can’t possibly stay like this but Greg plays him expertly, his hand on Mycroft’s cock going light and teasing.    
  
“Just a little longer.”  Greg kisses his back, just at the base of his spine.  Mycroft can feel the warmth of his breath over his skin.  “Hold on a little longer for me.”  
  
Mycroft whimpers and shudders.  Sweat springs out on his chest and trickles down the side of his face.  He licks his lips and tastes salt.  Greg’s fingers are gliding around the edges of his prostate now, just barely brushing.  His thumb swipes back and forth over the head of Mycroft’s cock, spreading moisture around, lapping at him.  The tight spring at the base of his groin twists a little deeper and a hard throb of pleasure rolls through his belly.    
  
“Please,” Mycroft gasps again.  His words are muffled, his face pressed hard against the blanket.  “Please, please, I need, oh please…”  
  
Greg surges forward with a low growl and bites him, teeth a sharp sting at the back of his neck, just below the collar.  Mycroft arches his back and goes tense all over, gritting his teeth, breath held still in his chest.  He tugs helplessly at the cuffs, wanting to get a hand around himself, to squeeze the base of his cock because he’s going to come, he can’t stop, he _can’t_.  
  
Then Greg’s fingers are gone and there is a warm hand at the small of his back, soothing him.  “Shh, easy, it’s okay,” Greg whispers to him.  “Breathe.  Listen to me.  Listen to my voice and do as I say.  You can do this, Mycroft.  You can be good.”  
  
For a moment there is only the building wave of pleasure and the terrible knowledge that he is going to fail, he’s going to disappoint Greg, he can’t be good after all.  But he breathes out and goes beneath that, letting himself slide down into blank quiet, and it retreats.  All the tension runs out of his back and shoulders and he slumps in relief.  
  
“Beautiful,” Greg says warmly.  “So good, I knew you could do it.  I’m so proud of you.”  
  
The words make something go loose and heavy in his chest and he swallows hard.  The feeling of the collar around his neck as his throat moves settles him.  He smiles and presses back toward Greg.  He wants the touch, he wants to feel Greg’s hands on him.  He wants to be kept warm and close.  
  
Greg settles on top of him, his body a solid weight on Mycroft’s back, pressing him down into the mattress.  He sighs contentedly.  Greg only lingers for a moment though; he pushes himself up on his elbows before his weight can begin to hurt Mycroft’s pinned arms.      
  
Hands tug at his hips, angling him, and then he feels blunt, slick pressure.  He spreads his thighs wider.  When Greg pushes in, he makes a soft, wondering sound.  “Mycroft,” he says.  “Oh, _oh._ ”    
  
Mycroft remains still until Greg glides over his prostate and then he can’t anymore.  He rocks back and moans.  It’s more than fingers, more than the occasional toys he’s tried in the past.  It’s _Greg_.  It’s intimate and deep and he squeezes his eyes shut and presses his lips into a firm line.    
  
He’s already close, still close from everything that’s come before, and his cock throbs urgently.  He’s ready to come before Greg has even finished entering him but he bites the inside of his cheek and holds it back.    
  
Greg makes a low, deeply satisfied sound when he’s all the way in and he just stays there for long moments.  His hands run up and down Mycroft’s flanks,  and then he laces their fingers together and squeezes.  “ _There_ ,” he says.  “I’ve wanted to have you for so long.”  
  
“You always had me,” Mycroft murmurs.  “From the day we met.”  
  
Greg’s fingers go even tighter around his.  “ _Mycroft_ ,” he says, and his voice goes rough.  His hips draw back and then snap forward hard.  Mycroft gasps; his cock twitches and presses between his belly and the pillow below.    
  
Greg’s breathing becomes ragged and he starts thrusting in earnest, angling until he’s hitting Mycroft’s prostate on every stroke.  One hand slides underneath to stroke him and Mycroft shouts and tries to twist away.  
  
“Don’t,” he says, breathless.  “I’m too close, please, I can’t.”  
  
“Good boy,” Greg says.  Mycroft shudders.  Even the rub of his cock against the pillowcase is maddening.  “Soon,” Greg promises him.  “Soon, oh, you’re so tight, I’m… oh god that’s good.”  
  
Mycroft scrabbles with his toes against the bed and tosses his head back and forth.  His hair hangs in his eyes, damp with sweat, and he can hear the small, eager sounds that Greg makes.  Greg’s hand is tight against his hip, and the other comes up to tug at his collar.  It pulls tight against his throat and Mycroft feels the thud of his own racing heartbeat in his temples.    
  
One, two, three more deep thrusts and then Greg stays, buried to the hilt.  His collar goes even tighter and Mycroft can’t breathe and his head is full of rushing white nothing.  “Now,” Greg growls.  “Now, Mycroft, oh, oh _yes_.”  
  
He can’t make any sound, but his mouth hangs open and all his muscles lock up as he comes.  Greg is still twitching and pulsing inside him and the pleasure coiled in his belly spreads in a wide spiral.  He can feel it in his nipples and lips and cock, cascading down his back and tingling in his fingertips.  His chest heaves as he tries to breathe past the constriction of the collar and his vision goes blurry, then gray.  He’s dizzy, floating, awareness fading from the outside in.  He loses his hands and feet first, then his limbs, numbness drawing in around him.  The lingering pangs of sweet aftershocks in his belly are the last to go and then he’s out, under, gone.  
  
*  
  
When he wakes, the cuffs are off and he’s curled under a blanket.  Greg lies beside him, watching him closely.  Mycroft blinks at him.  He’s aware of the warmth of the blanket and how it is pleasant over the cooling sweat on his skin.  He can feel the faint ache in his arse, and another ache at his throat, under the collar.  It hurts a little to swallow.  His shoulders throb dully and there is a streak of something sticky on his thigh.  His head is entirely empty.    
  
“Hey,” Greg says.  He cups Mycroft’s jaw in one hand and runs his thumb over his lips.  “Come back to me now.  Talk to me.  Are you okay?”  
  
Mycroft closes his eyes and curls toward Greg.  He’s relaxed and sleepy and coming up enough to speak does not appeal at all.  Greg knows sex does that to him, especially when he’s tied up during, and normally lets him stay under and sleep afterward.  Mycroft doesn’t understand why this time is different.  He’s so comfortable and Greg is so warm and he just wants to drift.  
  
“Mycroft.”  Greg’s voice is stern, implacable.  “I mean it.  Just for a little while.  I need to know that you’re all right.”  
  
Mycroft sighs and wrinkles his nose.  “M’fine,” he mumbles.  “Tired.”  
  
“How’s your throat?  Any pain?”  
  
“It’s fine.”  
  
“Tell me the truth,” Greg replies sharply.    
  
“I am,” Mycroft insists.  With effort, he opens his eyes and makes himself focus.  Greg’s face swims into view.  There is a worried line between his eyebrows and his eyes are dark.  Mycroft gives him a long, thoughtful look.  “That went further than you intended it to.”  
  
Greg nods.  “You passed out.  I was _choking_ you.”  
  
“Greg…”  Mycroft smiles and wriggles closer to him.  He puts his arms around Greg and feels him squeeze back eagerly.  “It was brilliant,” he says.  “You’re always so careful with me.  It was amazing to feel you let go a little, lose some of that iron control.”  
  
“I’m _supposed_ to have control,” Greg replies.  He traces Mycroft’s back with his fingertips, then cradles him close, very gently.  “I could have hurt you.”  
  
“You didn’t,” Mycroft says simply.  “I trust you.  You would never.”  
  
Greg takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.  He kisses Mycroft’s forehead, and then his mouth, soft and lingering.  “Well,” he says.  “You’re the man who knows everything, so I guess you must be right.”  
  
Mycroft chuckles and nods.  “You may rely on that.  Now--I’m rather delightfully worn out, and I know you are too.  Can we get some rest?”  
  
“Yeah,” Greg says.  He yawns and tugs Mycroft over, settling him against his chest.  “Relax now.  Slip down, I have you.”  
  
Mycroft doesn’t need any more encouragement.  He wriggles to get comfortable and breathes deep, inhaling the scent of Greg’s skin.  The soothing haze wraps around his mind and he’s only dimly aware of Greg murmuring and stroking his back as he drifts into sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

They spend their first morning on the front porch.  The sunrise is, as Greg promised, stunning.  The cabin is on a small rise and they watch the sun slip over the next hill and then fill the valley between them.  It’s all golden light filtered green through the leaves and long shafts of shadow.  They pull the duvet off the bed and wrap themselves up in it.  They’re both still naked and there’s something decadent about being wrapped in nothing but a blanket out in the fresh air. 

Mycroft rests his cheek against Greg’s shoulder and listens to their breathing.  The world is quiet, but not still; he can see birds flitting through the trees and a curious squirrel is daring enough to scurry over the porch railing.  Under the blanket, Greg links their fingers together and rubs his thumb over Mycroft’s knuckles.  Mycroft curls a little closer.  He takes a deep breath, feeling the pressure of the collar against his throat when he inhales.  There is a part of his mind that is still concerned with what’s going on back home—still ticking over the schedule of meetings and presentations and important discussions that he’s missing.  But that part gets further away as they sit in comfortable silence.  The quiet insulates him; the prospect of more days like this ahead is soothing.

When the sun is all the way up and Mycroft is beginning to want more for breakfast than a cup of tea, Greg sighs and stretches.  “I’m glad we came out here,” he says.

Mycroft nods.  He turns his head to nuzzle against the hollow of Greg’s neck, and catches his scent.  “S’good,” he mumbles.  He feels lazy and content and not inclined to end the moment.

Greg chuckles softly.  “I love the way you lose that perfect speaking voice when you’re down.”

“Mmm.”  Mycroft yawns and pulls the duvet a bit more snugly around his shoulders.  The air does have a certain bite, but they’re warm underneath.

“I’ll make breakfast,” Greg offers.  “Here, let me get this.”  He lifts Mycroft’s chin and touches his neck.  Mycroft’s eyes widen when he feels the clasp on the collar come loose.  He jerks his head away before it can come off entirely.

“What are you doing?”  His voice is sharper than he meant it to but it’s only been a day; they have a week and Greg can’t take it away yet.  He’s not ready.

Greg looks at him and his brows draw together in concern.  “I’m taking it off so you can have a shower,” he says.  “I’ll put it back on afterward.”

Mycroft schools his expression.  “Oh,” he says.  “Of course.”

“Are you okay?”

He hesitates; it is never acceptable to lie when Greg asks him this, he’s learned that, but he’s not sure what the truth is.  “I was just startled,” he says.  “It’s fine.”

“You sure?” Greg asks.  “Because you seemed… look, if it makes you uncomfortable, you don’t have to wear it.”

“That’s not it,” Mycroft says.  “I like it.  I… I can’t properly explain how it feels.”

A flicker of something he can’t identify passes over Greg’s face.  “I know.  It does something to me, too, seeing you wear it.  Knowing I put it there.”  He sighs and traces his fingertips over the leather.  “If it were up to me, you’d keep it.  Even after we get home.”

Mycroft closes his eyes.  He can picture it easily.  Everywhere he goes: walking on a crowded London street or attending a political fundraiser in black tie or speaking to some foreign dignitary in some quiet, secluded location.  Everyone would see it and know he is valued and wanted, he belongs to someone, and he is not alone… but they would also know his secret.  He gives Greg a rueful smile.  “I wish that were possible.”

“Someday it will be,” Greg says.  “I’ll wait.” 

Mycroft kisses him; it is impossible not to.  Greg kisses him back, fierce at first and then slow, tender.  He hums in pleasure and pulls back to look at Mycroft.  “Now,” he says.  “You are naked and sticky and you smell like sex.  It’s a great look on you but I imagine you don’t really want to spend the whole day like that.”

“Maybe not the _whole_ day,” Mycroft says, smiling.

“Come on, then,” Greg says.  He pulls gently at the collar.  “You can have it right back.”

Mycroft lowers his head and allows Greg to remove it.  His neck feels strangely bare without it; cold where the strip of warm leather rested.  When he lifts his chin again, Greg goes still.  “What?” Mycroft asks.

Greg’s lips press into a hard line and he takes a controlled breath.  “Bruises,” he says.  “From last night.  I left bruises on your neck.”

Mycroft reaches up as if he’ll be able to feel them; the skin is a bit tender but it’s very mild.  “Should fade quickly,” he says.  “I think it’ll be fine by the time we go back.  Just be careful not to do that again, I can’t have visible marks.”

“That’s not,” Greg starts, and then looks away, pressing a hand over his mouth.

“Greg?  What is it?”

He shakes his head.  “I shouldn’t have done that to you.”

Mycroft touches his cheek, turning his head until their eyes meet.  “Do you remember the first time we were together?  You kissed me hard enough to leave marks on my collarbone and my chest.  You even told me that you wanted to mark me.  How is this different?”

“That was just kissing,” Greg says.  “Love bites.”

“Love bites are bruises,” Mycroft points out.  “It’s the same physical response.  I liked it then and I liked it last night.”

“I shouldn’t… last night was different, it was _violent,_ ” Greg argues.  He looks miserable and it does something to Mycroft just to see him that way.  It makes the bottom drop out of his stomach and his hands go tight on Greg’s shoulders.

“It was passionate,” Mycroft insists.  “There’s a difference.  I mean it, Greg; what happened was completely with my consent.  I know the rules.  I could have stopped you anytime and I didn’t, because I _didn’t want to._ Why is this getting to you so much?  You’re always so good to me, so careful.  You treat me with kid gloves.  I am not as fragile as all that so I don’t know why…”  He trails off and draws in a sharp breath.  “Oh.  Oh, I see.”

Greg’s face goes blank.  “What do you see?”

“There was someone else,” Mycroft says.  “Someone before me.  Something happened, things went too far, and you blame yourself for it.  That’s why you’re so gentle; why you take things so slow.  Why you remind me of the rules every time.”

“Mycroft Holmes, mind reader,” Greg says.  His mouth has a bitter twist to it and he looks away.

He’s a bit stung by that, but not so easily put off.  “You told me once that just because I had one bad match didn’t mean I couldn’t find a good one.  You were right—I did find a good one in you.  You said it would be different with you, and it is.  Why do you have trouble believing that it can be different with me, too?”

Greg sighs and he pulls Mycroft close.  Their foreheads lean together for a moment.  Then Greg tilts his head and kisses his neck gently, leaving a trail of soft touches along the tender skin where the collar rested.  “You have to tell me,” he murmurs.  “You have to promise.  If I ever start to take it too far, if you’re _ever_ not happy with something we do, you’ve got to tell me right away.”

“Because they didn’t,” Mycroft says.  “They didn’t tell you.  You thought it was okay.  And by the time you found out it was too late.”

Greg nods.  “Yeah.  And I felt like some kind of monster.  I’m more careful now, I watch for the signs, but I know you.  You’re smart, certainly smarter than me.  If you wanted to fool me, you could.  So please, Mycroft, tell me you won’t do that."

“I promise,” Mycroft says.  He looks Greg in the eye and makes his voice low and earnest.  “I understand now why you always insist on honesty; why you got upset if I pretended to be fine when I wasn’t.  I’ll tell you the truth."

“Okay,” Greg says.  He lets out a long breath and wraps his arms around Mycroft, holding him close.  “Thank you.  Sorry to get all maudlin on you in the middle of our vacation.”

Mycroft gives a soft laugh and shakes his head.  “I’m glad you told me.”  He kisses Greg on the forehead, then stretches, his shoulder slipping out from under the cover.  He shivers a little in the morning air.  “Now,” he says.  “I still need that shower, and I believe you offered breakfast.”

“Right,” Greg says.  He stands up, taking the blanket with him; Mycroft yelps when he suddenly finds himself naked on the front porch.  Greg giggles and darts inside.

“Hey!” Mycroft shouts, but he’s grinning.  The sun feels good on his skin.  He should go in, and he will, but he lingers, enjoying the freedom for just a bit longer.

*

After breakfast, when they’re both showered and dressed, Greg persuades Mycroft to go for a walk in the woods.  “You’ll like it,” he says.  “Bit of exploring.  Check out the wildlife, enjoy the sunshine.”

“Hmm,” Mycroft says, skeptical.  But he can’t resist Greg’s endearing smile, and so the man running the British government finds himself in jeans and hiking boots, meandering through the trees in the middle of nowhere.

Greg lifts a low hanging branch and they duck under it.  The trail (if one chooses to rather generously call it a trail; Mycroft thinks it is more of a thin spot in the underbrush) twists and turns aimlessly.  The air is cool and damp under the trees.  Sunlight lies in pools scattered all around them; as they pass through shafts of light the sudden warmth washes over them.  Mycroft turns his face up into one such patch and closes his eyes.

Greg takes his hand as the trail widens.  He turns to Mycroft and presses a finger to his lips.  “Careful here,” he whispers.  “There’s a clearing.  We might be lucky.”

“Lucky how?” Mycroft whispers back. 

“You’ll see.” 

They creep forward as the trees thin around them.  The light is brighter ahead, and Mycroft blinks against it.  He hears the water before he sees it, the quiet bubbling rush.  The stream cuts through the clearing, running north to south, and there is a place near the centre where the water grows slow and deep.  On the far side of this pond, three deer are standing in the tall grass.

“Oh,” Mycroft says softly. 

“Red deer,” Greg murmurs.  “Sometimes you also see roe deer this far north.  You can tell the difference; the red ones are bigger.”

“And red,” Mycroft observes dryly.

Greg grins and elbows him in the side.  “I used to come up here a lot as a kid.  The family spent every summer at the cabin.  I learned to swim right there.”

Mycroft gives him a sidelong glance.  “Romping among the deer droppings.  Charming.”

“Yeah, it’s not your posh grammar school but it was fun,” Greg replies, unruffled.  “Come on, let’s get closer.”

They ease into the clearing.  Two of the deer are drinking from the pond, but their heads come up.  They stare at each other for long moments.  Mycroft goes very still, and he can feel Greg beside him, poised and silent.  There is a certain fascination in being so close to a wild animal with nothing between them but swaying grass. 

Another step, then another, easing closer.  One of the deer twitches her ears and takes a step back.  They’re surprisingly large up close; Mycroft always had the mental image of them as delicate, spindly creatures but these animals are big and solid.  The one that moved abruptly wheels and bolts away and the other two follow close behind.  Their hooves are loud against the ground, and they disappear into the trees on the other side of the clearing.

Greg sighs and turns to smile at him.  “I had this idea that I could tame them when I was a kid.  Brought them little treats, tried to get them to eat out of my hands.  It never worked; they wouldn’t come close enough.  Probably for the best.  They shouldn’t get too comfortable around humans, not when there are still hunters in the right season.”

Mycroft can picture it: Greg as a boy, dark-eyed and tanned, in grass stained jeans and a tee shirt, running through the woods and trying to make friends with the deer.  “How is it you spent summers here?” he asks.  “Didn’t your parents have to work?”

“Yeah, me and my brother stayed with our grandfather,” Greg says.  He settles onto a large boulder by the pond, and Mycroft sits beside him.  The rock is warm with the sun and smooth, weathered over the years.  “It was his cabin first; he and Grandma built it.  He passed it to my dad, and my dad passed it to my brother.  One day it’ll go to my nephew Jack.”

“Do you see them much anymore?  Your brother and his family.”

Greg shakes his head.  “They still live in Bristol.  Last time I saw Jack I could pick him up and carry him on my shoulders.  He turned seventeen in May.  His sister is twenty-two and she just had a baby; she got married last year.  Brandon, that’s my brother, he’s a grandfather himself now.”

Mycroft laces his fingers behind his head and stares up at the sky.  “You don’t talk about your family very often.”

Lying beside him, Greg shrugs.  “Guess being up here makes me think of them.”

“It was a good time,” Mycroft says.  “I can hear it in your voice.  Your summers here were happy.”

“Yeah, suppose that’s true,” Greg says.  “I was lucky.”

“And yet you don’t come up here anymore,” Mycroft points out.  “It’s a lovely place, and you were happy here.  Why do you avoid it?”

Greg gives a wry chuckle.  “Nothing ever gets past you.”  He slides closer until their shoulders brush together.  “When I was here, it was with my family,” he says quietly.  “I was part of something.  I was with people I loved.  Once I grew up and left home, I didn’t really have anyone to take here.   Not for a long time.  It’s not a place to come alone.  It’s a place to share.”

“It’s been kept in good condition,” Mycroft points out.

“Yeah, that’s Brandon.  Him and his kids; he brings them out pretty often.  At least a few times a year.  His wife likes it in the fall, when the leaves change.  Sometimes I join them if I can get away, but like I said, it’s been quite a while.”

Mycroft reaches down and takes Greg’s hand; their fingers lace together.  “I was very alone when I met you,” he says.  “Sometimes I forget that you were alone too.”

Greg squeezes his hand tight.  “Yeah,” he says.  “Not anymore.”

“No,” Mycroft agrees.  “Not anymore.”


	4. Chapter 4

On the third day, they go fishing.  Greg leads them in a different direction from the cabin, up a short and thankfully wide trail.  They’re carrying tackle boxes and folding chairs.  The fine weather is holding and Mycroft has a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of his nose, brought out by all the sun he’s gotten.  That morning, Greg called them adorable and Mycroft hit him with a pillow.

They come to a stream which Mycroft thinks is the same one from before, from the clearing, but further down.  It is wide here, somewhere between a large creek and a small river, and it runs clear and swift.  He can see the stony bottom and the silvery darts of fish in the sunlight.  They set up the folding chairs and Greg opens the tackle box.  Mycroft watches over his shoulder, eyes the collection of fishhooks, and takes a moment to be glad his tetanus jab is up to date.

“Right,” Greg says.  “Done this before?”

“I’ve… seen it done,” Mycroft says.  Fishing shows are soothing; the low, droning voice of the announcer has been a comfort in the past when he had trouble sleeping.

“Easiest sport in the world,” Greg replies.  “Watch me first to get an idea of how it’s done.” 

Mycroft watches as he assembles the rod and reel with deft hands.  Greg selects a lure and hook, then threads them onto the line.  He gives the rod a few experimental swings and gestures for Mycroft to take a step back.  Then he flicks his arm with a neat, practiced motion and the lure goes arcing out over the water and lands with a splash. 

Greg stands in the sunlight, hips slung to one side, looking tanned and relaxed in his jeans and sunglasses.  His shoulders are loose, his face calm and focused, and he radiates easy confidence.  Mycroft licks his lips.  He wants to kneel in the soft grass and have him right there, taste him and make him come undone.  Fishing shows certainly never prepared him for _this._

“Like that,” Greg says, tugging at the line.  The lure darts enticingly back and forth in the water.  “See?  Little motions.  Then you wait for a bite, and give it a sharp pull to set the hook.” 

Mycroft says nothing.  Greg’s shirt is open at the collar.  The material shifts and tugs a bit more open as he moves, exposing an inviting triangle of skin.  The light shines in his silvery hair and he looks strong and vital. 

“Mycroft?  You watching?”  Greg glances at him, then pauses.  A slow smirk spreads across his face.  “Ah,” he says. 

Instinct and habit make Mycroft duck his head and school his expression.  Then, deliberately, he lets that go.  He allows the desire to show on his face as he looks back up at Greg.  He eyes Greg up and down with a long, lascivious stare.

Greg grins and raises his eyebrows.  “Really?  Didn’t figure you’d go for the sportsman look.”

“Apparently I do when you wear it,” Mycroft replies.  He stalks forward.  He can see Greg’s lips part, and the way his chest moves as he breathes faster.  It sends a curl of something warm and proud through him to know he has that effect; to know Greg is aroused by just the suggestion of what he’s offering.

“All right, then,” Greg says.  His voice has gone low and intent.  His posture changes and he seems to grow larger, drawing all Mycroft’s attention effortlessly.  He sets the fishing pole down and puts a hand on the back of Mycroft’s neck, pressing the warm leather of the collar against his skin.  “I’m going to have you right here,” he purrs.  “Right here in the open.  You’re going to do everything I say.”

“Yes,” Mycroft replies.  His head drops, baring his neck, and he feels himself sway on his feet.  He closes his eyes and goes where Greg pushes him.  When a strong hand presses down on his shoulder, his knees buckle and he folds to the ground.  The hiss of the wind through the trees and the babbling rush of the water mix together in his head, wrapping him in quiet. 

There is a faint creak as Greg moves the folding chair, and then he tugs Mycroft forward.  He takes Mycroft’s hand and puts it on the waist of his trousers.  “Open them,” he says.

Mycroft keeps his eyes closed.  He moves by feel, running his hands up Greg’s legs.  He leans forward to rub his cheek against Greg’s cock, still hidden behind his trousers.  He breathes in and mouths the material, making an eager hum.  Then he opens the button and zip, drawing both trousers and pants down Greg’s thighs.  He can feel hot, smooth skin against his jaw, already hard.  He licks Greg in a broad, flat stroke, root to tip, gathering the taste of him.

Greg makes a soft sound and his hips jerk.  He buries his hand in Mycroft’s hair and pulls him back.  “Wait,” he says.

He gives a frustrated whine, but doesn’t struggle.  Greg strokes his hair and the back of his neck.  Mycroft sways on his knees and settles, tension running out of his shoulders.  His arms hang slack at his sides and his head lolls forward.  He listens to the grass whispering and the trickle of the stream; he lets his focus go to the feeling of the breeze against the fine hairs on his bare arms.  He breathes out and is quiet.  He waits, peaceful, to be told what to do next.

“Good,” Greg murmurs.  “Good boy.”

Mycroft smiles and a shiver of pleasure goes through him.  He’s dimly aware of movement in front of him but allows that knowledge to skate right over the surface of his mind without sinking in.  There is a gentle tug at his collar and he follows obediently.  He finds himself on his knees in front of the chair, between Greg’s spread thighs. 

“I’m going to give you instructions now,” Greg says.  “Do exactly as I say.”

“Yes,” Mycroft mumbles.  His voice is thick and slurred, lazy in his mouth.

“Good.  Kiss up my leg, along the inner thigh.  Use your tongue, put some force into it.  I want to feel it.  Kiss a line all the way up but don’t touch my cock yet.”

Mycroft obeys, starting just above the knee.  Greg’s skin is warm and lightly furred.  He sucks in several places, licking the skin between his lips, flicking with the point of his tongue.  He laps at the salt tang and nuzzles at the crease where his thigh meets his groin.  The skin is tender there and he takes his time, kissing up and down, feeling the soft brush of Greg’s balls against his cheek. 

“Yes,” Greg says.  His voice is rougher now, breathless.  “Now the other side.  Kiss a little harder.  Use your teeth.”

He adds a bit of scrape and nibble with his teeth, pulling the skin between them and sucking on it as he works his way up Greg’s other leg.  He can feel the quivering tension in the muscle beneath his lips.  He finds Greg’s pulse and sucks over it; the skin grows hot under his mouth.  Greg shifts and makes a low sound in his throat.  His hand his firm in Mycroft’s hair.

“Now, mmm,” Greg says.  “My balls.  Suck them, gently.  Roll them in your mouth, one at a time.”

Mycroft can feel the weight of them on his tongue as he sucks one in.  He rolls it, just as Greg asked, running his tongue over the soft skin.  He is sharply aware of Greg’s vulnerability in the moment; a very tender and delicate part of his body is defenseless in his mouth.  Mycroft cradles him with his lips and rubs with the flat of his tongue.  Greg moans and his hips rock in tiny motions.

“That’s, that’s good, oh,” Greg pants.  “Both of them, back and forth, just a little harder.”

They’re trying to draw close to Greg’s body and Mycroft gives a gentle tug, wriggling his tongue.  Greg slides forward, on the edge of the chair now, legs splayed wide.  Mycroft can smell the rich tang of his arousal and when he opens his eyes he can see Greg’s cock, curving hard against his belly.  The deep red colour and bare skin looks obscenely decadent in the broad daylight. 

“Mmm, yes,” Greg says.  “Now my cock, but just lick.  All over, as hard as you can.”

Mycroft laps at him, coating his tongue with the bitter-salt sharpness of pre-come.  Greg is smooth and very hot, bobbing and twitching against his mouth.  He uses slow, firm strokes, from the base to the tip and back again, like he’s licking an ice lolly.  Then he adds little flicks of his tongue along the crown and foreskin.  He swirls the tip at the sweet spot just below the head, then licks in rapid dabs over the slit. 

Greg’s hips are making tiny, helpless thrusts upward.  His hand is trembling against the back of Mycroft’s neck.  “Oh god _now_ ,” he blurts out.  “Now, your mouth, take it in your mouth, all the way, _hurry_.”

Mycroft moans in relief as he finally takes Greg in his mouth.  His lips slide over the head and down in a slick ring and he swallows, feeling the blunt, slick pressure at the back of his throat.  He sucks hard and bobs his head in fast strokes.  He hums encouragement as he feels Greg twitch and shudder against him.

“ _Mycroft,_ oh, oh that’s good,” Greg moans.  “Fuck I’m close, just a little more, I want to feel…”

Mycroft wants to feel it too.  He goes as deep as he can, until his nose is pressed against Greg’s belly and his throat is full.  He can’t breathe but it doesn’t matter, he _wants._ He swallows again and again, sucking hard and lapping with his tongue in firm swirls.  Greg cries out and his fingers dig into Mycroft’s shoulders.  His body goes tense and his cock grows even thicker.  Mycroft relishes the pressure of it, the hot weight on his tongue, the way Greg’s voice breaks as he comes.

He manages to draw a half-breath in through his nose but that’s all and he’s dizzy, vision blurred and gray by the time Greg lets him go.  He rests his cheek against Greg’s thigh and gasps in ragged breaths until his head clears.  The sun is warm on his face and Greg’s fingers trail through his hair and he feels only a deep-seated swell of satisfaction and pride.  He smiles and lolls there, lazily licking his lips.

“You,” Greg murmurs after a while.  “You are amazing.  I’m never letting you go.”

Mycroft wraps his arms around Greg’s legs and turns his head, pressing his face against the other mans’ thigh.  He takes a deep breath and curls as close as he can.  Being taken down and intimate leaves him without defenses and all the emotions are close to the surface.

“Mycroft?”  Greg tugs at him, gently pressing his shoulders until Mycroft sits back on his heels and looks up at him.  “Are you okay?”

Mycroft opens his mouth, then closes it again.  One hand creeps up his chest to tug at the collar.  It already feels good under his fingers; comforting.  “I don’t want to take this off,” he says quietly.

“I don’t want you to either,” Greg replies.  He runs his knuckles over Mycroft’s cheek.  His eyes are dark and serious.

“I wish I could…”  Mycroft sighs and looks away.  “It’s not fair.  A foolish complaint, I know.  I’m a very lucky man and have no right to complain.  But I wish I could have this feeling all the time.  I want to carry it with me every day.”

“I’m not asking you to give up your work,” Greg says.  “I’d never ask that.  Much as I want you all to myself, I know what it means to you.”

“And I can’t wear this and do my work properly,” Mycroft finishes.  “I know, believe me.  I’ve run it over and over in my mind.  There is acceptance—maybe more than I realized—but still not enough.  Old prejudice dies hard.”

“Let me work on it,” Greg says.  “I’ll see what I can come up with.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow.  “Greg, while I admire your cleverness…”

“Yeah, I’m not a genius like you, I know,” Greg replies good-naturedly.  “But I’ve learned that sometimes you Holmes boys are so busy looking for something brilliant you miss something obvious.  I can’t promise a solution, but… trust me?”

“Of course,” Mycroft says.  “Always.”

*

Eventually they do some actual fishing, and there is fish for dinner.  Mycroft is not sure about the cleaning process:

_(“What, you’ve never gutted a fish before?”_

_“No, amazingly enough, these magical places called grocery stores exist and have the fish all sliced and without entrails, readily available.”)_

He is more than skilled enough to prepare the fish once Greg provides him with the cleaned fillets, though.  There is a small grill on the back patio and he lays skewers of vegetables beside the foil wrapped and seasoned fish.  The smell alone makes him hover over the grill.  Greg gets rid of the scales and extra fish bits (Mycroft does not observe this part too closely) and disappears into the cabin to wash his hands.  After a while he comes to stand behind Mycroft, resting his chin on his shoulder.

“Being outside always makes me hungrier,” he says.  “Good thing I brought my executive chef along.”

Mycroft laughs quietly.  “Considering that you used to live on takeaway and sarnies I’m not surprised this feels like fine dining.”

“Mmm.”  Greg kisses the side of his neck and wraps his arms around Mycroft’s waist.  “Oh, I just talked to what’s-her-name, by the way.  Your assistant.”

“What?  Why?”  Mycroft turns, frowning at him.

“Because she called me,” Greg replies mildly.  “I never gave her my number but I guess that’s not really a problem for her.  She was checking on you.  I said you were fine, she said good, and that was it.  Short conversation, really.”

“But why did she call _you?_ I mean, why wouldn’t she call me?”

“Because your phone is off,” Greg says.  “Remember?  She even said not to bother you.  There was something about security protocols.  Personally I think she’s just a little worried that you’re out of her sight and she’s quietly keeping tabs on you.”

Mycroft turns the vegetable skewers and says nothing.  Greg holds him, running his knuckles idly up and down the center of his chest, and after a moment, Mycroft relaxes against him.

“I shouldn’t take offense,” he admits.  “She is responsible for my security.  We’re fairly isolated out here.  It only makes sense that she would check in at reasonable intervals.”

“But it bothers you,” Greg prods.

Mycroft lifts one shoulder in a half shrug.  “It reminds me that the real world still exists and I’ll have to go back to it when this week is over.”  He hesitates, then adds, “And it reminds me that you and she are doms and I feel as if you’re both… managing me.”

“She’s concerned for your well-being,” Greg says.  “Same as me; same as everyone else who cares about you.  I know you’re very protective of your independence but don’t take it that way.  We’re not trying to control you.”

“Well,” Mycroft says, mollified.  “ _You_ can.  She doesn’t get to.”

Greg squeezes him tighter.  “Only when you let me.  Honestly, I think you’re lucky to have that one on your team.  I wouldn’t want to be on her bad side.”

Mycroft chuckles.  “No, indeed you would not.  She likes you, don’t worry.  She approves of the effect you’ve had on my health.”

“Mmm,” Greg says.  “So do I.” 

“And I will return the favor by rescuing you from the purgatory of bad takeaway,” Mycroft says.  He whisks the vegetables and fish onto a large platter with a flourish.  “Dinner is served.”

“Brilliant.”  Greg presses one more kiss to his neck, then lets him go.  They settle at the small table beside the grill.  Greg groans happily when he tastes the crispy fish, and Mycroft grins at him.

“We’ll have to catch more tomorrow,” Mycroft says.

Greg gives him a lewd wink.  “Believe me, if today’s performance is any indication of what I can expect, I’m going to be taking you fishing a lot more often.”

Mycroft smiles, broad and uncomplicated.  “Good.  Maybe I’ll even learn to fish this time.”

Greg laughs and leans against him.  They sit side by side in companionable quiet, eating their dinner and watching the stars come out.


	5. Chapter 5

The next day, it rains.  Mycroft wakes to the sound of rain on the roof and gray, early morning light filtering through the window.  Greg is a warm weight behind him, curled against his back, arms snug around his chest.  He’s not properly awake and he drifts for a time.  He can feel the soft flutter of Greg’s breathing against his shoulder.  He only becomes aware of the collar when he swallows and shifts; the pressure already feels natural and familiar against his throat.

Mycroft presses back against Greg, wriggling closer.  Greg makes a soft, sleepy noise and his fingers twitch against Mycroft’s chest.  Mycroft closes his eyes and tries to absorb everything he can about the moment.  He inhales the scent of the rain and Greg’s skin and the faint lingering tang of sweat from their activities the previous night.  He listens to the way Greg’s breathing mixes with the steady patter of rain and the occasional buffets of wind around the eaves.  He stretches just to feel the warm slide of Greg’s skin against as much of his body as he can.  He holds his breath and focuses on the pleasant ache in his shoulders and arse; he thinks of how it got there and grins.

There are times he still cannot believe his good fortune.  There has even been a time or two when he woke up in the middle of the night and Greg wasn’t there; sometimes he works late or even all night if there is an important case.  At those times he needs to look around the flat, find all the signs that Greg _has_ been there, that this thing is real. 

There is a low, constant fear in the bottom of his mind that this will end and he’ll go back to the way his life was before.  He can’t imagine living like that again.  He can’t see how he did it for so long with his sanity intact.  When he looks back on that time now, it is an expanse of featureless gray; a mire of loneliness and exhaustion and need.  Even the thought of going back makes him shiver and press closer to Greg.

“Mmm,” Greg says, squeezing him tighter in response.  “Is it morning?”  His voice is rough and lazy with sleep.

Mycroft says nothing.  He turns so he is facing Greg and wraps his arms around the other man.  He presses his face into the hollow of Greg’s neck and takes a deep breath.

Greg strokes his hair, and then his back.  “You okay?”

“Yes,” Mycroft mumbles.  There is something about being tucked away in the cabin and isolated in the rainy, quiet woods that makes him feel the usual rules don’t apply.  They are apart from the world here.  He’s spent the past several days relaxed and happy and not needing his mask at all; his defenses are lower than they’ve ever been.

“Sure?” Greg asks.  His hand cups the back of Mycroft’s neck and squeezes.  Mycroft lets out a shuddery sigh.

“There are times when I am caught off guard,” Mycroft says quietly.  “It’s rare.  I’m very good at being on guard.  A lifetime of practice.  But there are times when I am struck and utterly undone by how very much I love you.”

Greg’s indrawn breath is loud in the still morning air.  It occurs to Mycroft after a beat that he’s never said it out loud like that.  Neither of them have.  He does _know_ that Greg loves him, of course.  It is perfectly obvious and Mycroft has never had trouble seeing what is right in front of him.  He doesn’t need to hear it to know it is true.

When Greg squeezes him so tight he can barely breathe and presses a shaky kiss against his shoulder, Mycroft realizes that perhaps Greg _does_ need to hear it. 

So he says it again.  “I love you,” he murmurs against Greg’s neck.  “So much,” he adds, kissing Greg on the forehead.  “I’ve completely fallen for you,” he breathes against Greg’s lips.  “I adore you,” he says, and kisses him between each word.  He pulls back enough to look Greg in the eyes; they are bright and wide.  “I’m never going to leave,” Mycroft tells him softly.  “ _Never._ ”

Greg makes a choked sound and kisses him; there is something fierce and almost frantic in the touch.  Mycroft goes pliant and lets him take charge.  He kisses back but rests his head in Greg’s cradling hands and goes where he is pushed.  He can already feel the familiar soft quiet wrapping around his mind.  His body knows quite well how to respond when Greg takes control.  The immediate submission seems to soothe something in Greg and the kiss becomes gentle.  His breathing settles and he holds Mycroft close.

“Thank you,” Greg says eventually.  “Thank you for that.  I know it’s not something you say often, or lightly.”

“I thought you already knew,” Mycroft replies.  “I would’ve said it much sooner.  I think I’ve been in love with you since the first time you took me down.”

Greg kisses him again, sweetly this time, his hand stroking Mycroft’s hair.  “Guess this is obvious since you always know everything, but I’m completely mad for you.  Just in case you were wondering.”

“You tell me every day,” Mycroft says.  “Actions speak louder than words.  But,” he adds, smiling, “it is still lovely to hear, thank you.”

“And I’m staying,” Greg finishes.  “Did you know that too?”

Mycroft closes his eyes and takes a measured breath.  “I was… somewhat less certain of that.”

“Don’t doubt it,” Greg says.  “I know sometimes it must seem uneven to you.  You must think that I was perfectly fine before you came along and I’d be fine again if things ended.  You were desperate and unhappy and I wasn’t.  Is that what you think?”

“I… yes,” Mycroft admits.  “Sometimes.  It’s true, isn’t it?”

“Mycroft Holmes,” Greg says, “for a genius you sure can be an idiot sometimes.”  He smiles and kisses Mycroft to soften the words.  “Why do you think I kept after you?  Why do you think I turned up at your door and wouldn’t leave?  Being a dom with no one to take care of is… god, I can’t even describe it.  Like being rudderless.  Like having no purpose and plodding ahead with no end in sight.  It’s _empty_ and horrible and just because I put on a good face doesn’t mean I wasn’t every bit as miserable as you.”

“Oh.”  Mycroft rests his cheek on Greg’s shoulder and thinks about it.  Greg is always so confident, so self-assured; he seems invincible.  Mycroft should really know better—no one is infallible.  Not even him.  “Good,” he says.  “Not that you were unhappy, but… it’s good to be needed.”

“You can be sure of that,” Greg replies.  His hand trails up and down Mycroft’s back in an idle, hypnotic stroke.  For a while they just lie quietly together, listening to the rain.

*

After breakfast, Greg makes another fire.  The cabin has a damp chill and the rain is still pouring down outside.  Mycroft wraps a blanket around his shoulders and kneels on the rug close to the fire, glad of the cheery crackle and warmth. 

“City boy,” Greg teases, settling in a chair beside him.  “Life without climate control must be terribly trying.”

Mycroft makes a quiet hum and leans against his knee.  He closes his eyes and sighs as Greg runs a hand through his hair.  He’s dressed in cotton trousers, a soft flannel tee, and thick socks in deference to the chill.  The blanket around his shoulders is a comforting weight; Greg’s hand is more so.  He slips down in his mind easily.   

“That sort of day, is it?” Greg observes.  “All right.  Lace your hands together in your lap.  Keep your eyes closed.  Budge back a little, you’re too close to the fire.  Good, like that.  Listen to the rain and to my voice.  I’ve got you, just relax.  Beautiful, good job, just that way.  Good boy.”

He drops under fast.  Their time together at the cabin has been soothing but Greg hasn’t taken him down with such deliberate instruction since the car trip out.  There’s been so much to do.  Of course, Mycroft has drifted beneath the surface several times when they’ve made love but there is something special about this.  Relaxing and going under for no reason other than Greg wants it; knowing he is safe and protected and doesn’t have to worry about anything.

He’s not sure how long he drifts.  The next time Greg catches his attention, he’s crouched beside Mycroft, fully dressed and wearing boots and a jacket.  Mycroft blinks at him and offers a dazed, sleepy smile.  Greg’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he grins in response.  “There you are,” he says.  “Listen now.  You with me?”

“With you,” Mycroft echoes obediently.  His head lolls forward when Greg releases his chin. 

Greg chuckles.  “You really don’t want to come up, do you?”

“Mmm.”  He closes his eyes again.

“Mycroft.”  His voice is stern now and Mycroft draws in a sharp breath, trying to focus.

“Yes,” he replies.  He shakes his head a little and meets Greg’s eyes.  “Yes, sorry.  It’s the quiet and the rain and, I think, the firelight.  It’s so easy to slip under.”

“Don’t worry,” Greg says.  “You can slide right back down after this.  I’m going out for a bit.”

Mycroft frowns and sits up straighter.  “Out?  It’s ghastly out there, where are you going?”

“Just need to pick up a few things in town.  Shouldn’t take me more than an hour.”

“What things?” Mycroft asks.  “We have everything we need.”

“Running a bit low on bread,” Greg says.

Mycroft narrows his eyes.  “We have eight slices left which is certainly enough for two more days.”

Greg gives a soft huff of laughter and rolls his eyes.  “Should’ve known that wouldn’t work.  Fine, I’m getting something and it’s a surprise for you.  Don’t deduce it.  If you do, at least pretend to be surprised.”

“Oh.”  Mycroft tilts his head thoughtfully to one side.  His mind is already ticking busily over the possibilities.  Then he takes a deep breath and pushes the thoughts away; Greg asked him not to deduce.  He can at least try.

“Good,” Greg says.  “Your phone is on the counter; use it if you need to.  The fire is banked but don’t sit too close to it.”

“Greg, really,” Mycroft says.  “I’m not a child; I’m hardly going to fall into the fire.”

“No, but you can sit there deep under and get yourself a pretty good sunburn from the heat if you don’t notice it,” Greg replies.  “It shouldn’t take me long to get back.  You ready to go back down?”

Mycroft frowns down at his laced hands.  “All right.”

“Would you rather not?”

He shrugs.  “It’s different when you’re not here.  Even when I’m deep under I think I’m still aware of you on some level.  Just knowing you’re there is reassuring.”

“Give me a straight answer,” Greg says firmly.  “Are you comfortable being left here while you’re down?  Yes or no.”

It’s a direct order; that’s always easier.  “Yes,” Mycroft says.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes,” Mycroft repeats.  “It’s just that when you’re gone I can’t get all the way down.  I’m always listening.  When you’re here I can really relax.”

A slow smile spreads across Greg’s face.  “You can?”

Mycroft nods.  “All the way.”

Greg kisses him, cupping his face in both hands and licking eagerly at his lips.  “Good boy,” he whispers, and Mycroft shivers.  Greg draws his bottom lip out and nibbles at it, then sucks.  He makes a low hum and his mouth curls into a smile.  “When I get back…”

“Yes,” Mycroft says.  “Anything.”

Greg gives him one more kiss, then pulls back with visible effort.  “Okay,” he says.  “Quiet now.  Tempting as you are, this is important and if I don’t leave now I’m going to spend the whole day in bed with you.”

Mycroft obediently grows quiet, dropping his head and settling more comfortably on his knees.

“Good,” Greg murmurs.  “Hush now.  I’ll lock up and you’ll be perfectly safe here.  Just let yourself slip down, that’s good, just like that.”  He keeps up the patter and Mycroft lets his voice mix with the silvery rush of the rain.  He breathes out and his shoulders curl as tension runs out of him.  There is a warm brush of fingertips against his cheek; then a firm palm on the back of his neck.  He feels like the floor is soft taffy and he can sink into it.  The warm fog swallows him up.

*

He’s drifting, but he rouses as soon as he hears the rattle of keys in the door.  The blanket has slipped down and his knees are a bit stiff from kneeling so long on the rug.  The fire is down to embers and he shivers, drawing the blanket more closely around himself.

Greg comes in on a gust of wind and rain.  His jacket is soaked, and his hair clings damply to his forehead.  Rivulets of water run down his face and drip from his fingertips.  He leaves muddy footprints on the floor and stops just inside the door, trying to wipe his feet and shrug out of his sodden jacket at the same time.

“Good lord,” Mycroft mutters.  He gets to his feet (wincing slightly as his legs protest the sudden movement after being stuck in one position so long) and takes Greg’s jacket.

“Thanks,” Greg says.  His face is ruddy with cold and under the jacket, his shirt has a long damp patch where rain ran down the back of his neck. 

“Did you actually stand out in the rain?” Mycroft asks.  “You’re positively drenched.”

 “The car couldn’t quite handle that last hill in the rain, too much mud,” Greg says.  “I was slipping all over the place.  I left it and walked the rest of the way.”  He punctuates the reply with a loud sneeze.

Mycroft makes a concerned _tsk_ and peels off the wet shirt.  Greg is shivering now, his teeth chattering.  Mycroft takes the blanket off his shoulders and wraps it around Greg, pressing it firmly closed beneath his chin.

“Oh that’s nice,” Greg groans, closing his eyes.  “Can’t believe it’s June; it must be twelve degrees out there.”

“It's the elevation,” Mycroft says.  “Lift your feet, let’s get you out of these trousers.”

Even sodden and shivering, Greg manages a faint leer.  “You going to warm me up, then?”

Mycroft smiles.  “Yes, because clearly ‘drowned rat’ is your most attractive look yet.”

Greg snorts.  He shuffles his feet helpfully as Mycroft works the wet, muddy boots off.  Leaving them by the front door, he drops the trousers, socks, and shirt on top of them in a pile.  Wearing nothing but pants and a blanket, he hurries across the room and hovers by the fire, holding his hands out.

“Sit down,” Mycroft says, giving him a gentle nudge toward a chair.  “I’ll build it back up a bit.”

“Giving me orders,” Greg mutters, but sits willingly.  He huddles beneath the blanket until only his nose and a wet tuft of silver hair is visible.

Mycroft has never built a fire, but he’s watched Greg do it enough times, and he’s nothing if not a quick learner.  Soon he has a respectable blaze going and heat radiates out into the little cabin.  He fetches another blanket and then curls beside Greg on the chair, laying the thick quilt over both of them.  Greg presses eagerly against his side.  His skin is cold and clammy and he’s still shivering; water drips from his hair down his neck.

Rubbing his hands over Greg to warm him, Mycroft tries to sop up a bit of the water with a corner of the blanket.  He keeps going until Greg stops shivering and relaxes with a sigh.  “Better?” Mycroft asks.

“Much, thanks.”  Greg stretches his feet out, warming his toes by the fire. 

“Get what you were looking for?”

Greg nods.  “No snooping.  I’ll show you once I’ve thawed a bit.” 

Mycroft tells himself firmly that he is not a child on Christmas morning, wriggling with impatience in front of a brightly wrapped package.  He can wait with reasonable decorum.  “Of course,” he says.  “No rush.”

Greg laughs and pokes him in the side.  “It’s killing you, isn’t it?”

“Nonsense,” Mycroft says primly.  “Would you like some tea?  It might warm you.”

“No, I want you to go bring me my trousers—without going through the pockets—before you burst from curiosity.”

Mycroft does not hurry across the room, but neither does he dawdle.  He holds the damp, muddy trousers gingerly with a faint wrinkle of his nose.  Greg watches him, an indulgent smile on his face.  He takes the trousers in one hand and beckons to Mycroft with the other, inviting him back under the blankets.

When they are settled, Greg gives him a stern look.  “Close your eyes,” he says.  “No peeking.”

“I do not _peek,_ ” Mycroft retorts, but closes his eyes as instructed.  He made no promises about listening though, and his ears practically perk with interest as he hears the rustle of fabric.  Something small, then; something that would fit in a pocket.  Perhaps a tag for the collar, something engraved with his name? 

Mycroft frowns slightly.  He’s seen that done before but it always made him think too much of a dog, rather than a person.  It’s not his style at all.  And besides, they’ve already agreed he can’t keep the collar.  He discards that theory.  But what else could it be?  Something that Greg considered worth going out in the storm.  Something that couldn’t wait. 

“Stop deducing,” Greg chides him.

Mycroft twitches, caught.  “I haven’t figured it out.”

“Oh?  You mean I may manage to surprise the brilliant Mycroft Holmes?”

“Greg,” Mycroft replies, “you surprise me more often than you know.”

“Good.”  Greg kisses him on the forehead.  “Then you won’t get bored of me.”

“Never,” Mycroft says.

There is a pause, and a thumb strokes over his cheek, then his lips.  Mycroft kisses it as it passes by.  “Give me your hand,” Greg says.

Mycroft holds out his right hand.  He feels Greg’s sure grip on his wrist, holding him steady.  He waits, calm and quiet; Greg will tell him what comes next.

“Open your eyes.”

Mycroft does, blinking slowly.  He’s slipping back under without even meaning to.  He looks down at his hand, then at Greg’s; one of them is holding his wrist but the other is closed, hiding something.  As he watches, Greg turns the hand over.  A simple gold ring sits in his palm, gleaming in the firelight.

“Oh,” Mycroft says softly.  “I…”

“It’s not a collar,” Greg says.  “But it could mean the same thing.  You could wear it on your right hand; to anyone else, it’s just a ring.  But we would know.”

“Greg.”  Mycroft’s voice has gone rough.  “You… that’s…”

“Speechless?” Greg asks lightly, but the thrum of nerves underneath is clearly audible.  “If you don’t want to wear it, that’s all right.”

“I want to,” Mycroft says.  “I do, I want… Greg, this is _brilliant._ ”

“Yeah?”  A broad grin spreads across his face and he ducks his head.  “I hoped you’d like it.”

Mycroft lifts his hand, spreading his fingers.  Greg meets his eyes for a long moment.  He holds the ring up.

“Go on,” Mycroft says.

“Do you accept this collar and everything it means?” Greg asks.

“Yes,” Mycroft says as the ring slides onto his finger.  It’s warm from Greg’s hand and fits perfectly.  “Yes, Greg.  _Yes_.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra thanks to strangecatramse on Livejournal who made art for this story! Go check it out, it's lovely. http://strangecatramse.livejournal.com/1944.html


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